Little Token of Our Thanks
by Darklady
Summary: Wesley is dead. Some people are mourning. Others are not - YET. Humor - unless your name is Roger Wyndham-Pryce


**A Little Token of Our Thanks**

by Darklady

This was first typed as an AU to an AU to another writers 'verse. That said, I don't think there is anything 'unique' still here, except for the idea that Giles will 1) become head of the reformed Watcher's Council and b) still hook up with Ethan Rayne. Certainly you will not need to read the other fics to understand the events here. (Not to deny that you SHOULD read them.) That said, the character of Pamela is the creation of Magpie and Wolfling, just as the characters of Rupert Giles, Ethan Rayne, and Roger Wyndham--Pryce are the property of sundry large media conglomerates. Not to mention the stray Harry Potter reference which is the domain of JKR. No offense or imposition is meant on the rights of any of these fine folks.

* * *

"Wyndham-Pryce." Rupert Giles kept his voice strictly neutral. Snarking at a fellow Watcher, even if said fellow was two hours late for a scheduled meeting, would be as unprofessional as... being two hours late.

"Sorry." Roger Wyndham-Pryce panted. He held out his hand - noticed the black smudges on the palm in the nick of time - and pulled it back just before he transferred the filth to *Rupert's* silk suit. "Sorry." he said again, this time to clearer purpose, as he scraped this dirty palm again his striped trousers. It left a streak. "I know I'm late..."

The hand shot out again.

Giles accepted it. Gingerly.

"... my car got booted in Bristol." The elder Watcher continued.

"Well, yes." Giles forced a tone of polite concern. "Parking enforcement is getting severe."

Wyndham-Pryce dropped into an armchair, muttering something about "Wasn't parked. Just stopped at a red light."

Giles might have answered - if only to check that his ears weren't going - but before he could there was a sudden sharp *crack*.

Followed by an "ooof".

That last was courtesy of Roger Wyndham-Pryce, who was now sprawled on the hardwood. Somehow all four of the chair legs had managed to shatter. Simultaneously.

"Oh dear." Giles helped the other man to his feet. "You *are* having a rough day."

Wyndham-Pryce needed the help. He tripped over his briefcase. The latch broke, scattering papers, one of which got caught on Pryce's heel. He tried to pull it off, only to give himself a nasty paper cut.

"Been like this all bloody week." Again, the reply was muttered. Aimed less at Giles then at the universe. "Computer crashed, cell phone dead, this morning the bloody pay phone *ate* my credit card..."

That last caught Giles's attention. "Not the Council one, I hope?"

"No."

Giles relaxed for a moment.

Then the man continued. "That one got sucked down the loo last Wednesday night."

"Oh dear." Giles repeated. Although that wasn't what he *felt* like saying.

"Jammed the line and flooded the whole house." Wyndham-Pryce fumbled in his suit coat until he found his cigarettes and a lighter. The pack was crushed. Badly. "Plumber's still don't have the water back." Sighing again, the man straightened out one cigarette as bet he could and raised it to his lips.

The lighter exploded.

"Shit." Two voices sounded as one.

Fortunately the Council quarters were warded. Plus Giles had the presence to cast a quick "Extingo'. No one was hurt.

Wyndham-Pryce flopped into another chair, his head in his hands. This time he didn't even whimper when gravity took its toll.

There was a sharp rip of cloth. Nowhere visible so... there was doubtless another reason Wyndham-Pryce stayed seated. "It's like I'm cursed," he moaned. "No matter what I do, how careful I am or how hard I try, everything just goes to..."

"I understand." Giles sympathies automatically. Then he thought for a minute and realized that he *did* understand. Far too well.

He stepped over the man on floor. "If you'll excuse me a moment?"

That was all he said until he was well into the next office and the heavy oak door was solidly shut behind him. Then Giles shouted. "ETHAN!"

"Yes, dear heart?" The chaos mage answered. His smile was bright, his eyes were twinkling, and ( could one overlook the absence of beard and the presence of designer tailoring ) looking for all the world like an evil Albus Dumbledore.

" Roger Wyndham-Pryce!"

"Dear Wesley's so loving father?" The words were decent. The tone was a curse. Which descriptive Rupert would have chosen with great exactitude.

"How *could* you?!"

Ethan's twinkle notched up an amp. "Easily. And with great pleasure."

* * *

"But...?" Rupert held out his hands, the universal sigil for 'why'. Why had Ethan chosen to curse a man who, if memory served, he had never passed more than two minutes with? For a man he had never even... Rupert searched his memory. Had Ethan met Angel? Wesley?

"Elizabeth Ann Summers." Ethan read out the name, as if at random. He toyed with a small framed picture. One of several that littered his desk. This one was of himself and Rupert, arms linked over the shoulder of a slender blonde. A souvenir of Dawn's birthday camera and a trip to Brighton. "Do you recall where your dear Uber-Slayer was, Saturday one month back?"

"In LA." The answer was automatic. "At the funerals."

Buffy had not been close to all of Angel's people, but she had known them. Joined them in their final battle. Lost sister Slayer's. So of course she had flown back to pay her last respects. He had wanted to attend himself, but there had been a crisis in Butran and...

"As was Faith, and Willow, and even Xander." Ethan leaned back against his desk. "And our Roger?"

Giles blinked. "He was...."

"... in Chelsa. At a used book fair." The Buffy photo was replaced by one of Willow and Dawn at Disneyland. The human part of the Angel crew was grouped behind the girls, with Wesley over Dawn's left shoulder. "Picked up an early Zalewski, plus a few Oxford reprints." Ethan made a show of polishing the frame before setting it back. "Hardly earth-saving Council business that would require missing his own son's funeral.

"I... hadn't noticed." He should have, Giles thought. Should have gone beyond the formal letter Pamela had typed up. He should have made the effort to talk to Wesley's father as soon as the news of his loss had come in. To express his sympathies, personally and as head of the Council. Only there had been so many losses, and so little time, and in the confusion of rebuilding he had... just... not noticed.

"Angel did." Ethan stood. " He was... displeased. Extremely."

"So he decided to hire you?"

"Actually, dear Angel's (the way Ethan pronounced the name, the 'us' ending was heard if unspoken ) plan was to hire a plane. Pop over the pond and have a ... word... with dear Roger. " Ethan reached for another picture, reconsidered, and settled for toying with his cuffs. "I think the word he had in mind was ... goodbye. Fine people the Irish, but a tad demonstrative."

Giles said nothing. Loudly.

Ethan shrugged. "Spike, on the other hand?"

In an under voice, Ethan added. "Perceptive lad, really. "

"Spike pointed out that you really *are* short on Watchers. Might just possibly miss the prig. Plus Buffy does tend to enforce the no-murder or no-sex rule."

Which could apply to either vampire or to both. Giles loved his Slayer with a father's love, but like any good father there were parts of a daughter's life he just preferred NOT to contemplate.

"Spike had your number?"

Ethan ran his fingers over a shelf of books. "Chaos? Hellmouth? Sunnydale?"

"Spike had your number."

"Actually." Ethan counted off on his fingers.. "Spike had Faith's number. Faith had Kennedy and Willow's number. Willow had Buffy's cell number."

"And Buffy has our home number."

Ethan nodded. "And both office numbers."

"So bloody *William the Bloody* commissioned you..."

"Actually, I believe Liam is the client." Ethan slid out his bound Watcher's diary, as if to check some reference. Which, as they both knew that Ethan used said volume only to record birthdays and football scores? Plus the on going coffee room betting pool? "Angel Investigations, at any rate." Pages slid under Ethan's fingers. "Helping the helpless, and all that. Of which there is nothing more helpless then a five year old boy beaten because..."

"Angel...commissioned you to..." Giles overrode Ethan.

"...make Roger-boyo as miserable a bastard as the miserable bastard made his son. Shake his confidence, shatter his dignity, crush his self-esteem and destroy any memory of social sang-froid. All, mind you, by entirely non-lethal means. We *are* the good guys, after all."

Finding the page, Ethan held it out.

There, pasted under memoranda, was a faxed invoice page signed Liam O'Connor.

"...and you... you..."

"Come, dear heart." Ethan leaned forward. "Remember what we promised about respecting each others callings."

"But..."

Ethan took his lover's hands. "I swear by Janus, who like me gets one both coming and going, this Roger Worthless-Prat won't have a bit of grief that he doesn't fully deserve. No blood loss. No broken bones." Ethan slid the journal back into its place on the shelf. "And all he has to do to break the hex is to say one decent, respectful, appreciative thing - just one mind you - about his own son."

"That's it?" Rupert Giles's voice went up a notch, half from relief and half from shock. It wasn't like Ethan - even the new and officially reformed Ethan - to be so... merciful.

"I do pride myself on my delicate touch." One arched eyebrow accented the remark. "And I will note that it has been - three weeks now, is it not? - and the curse is still in full force."

"Oh." Ethan froze a second, as if listening. Then, after dropping a quick kiss on Rupert's lips, said, "Best get back to your office. Dear Roger seems to have somehow locked himself into a dark closet."

* * *

"Pamela." Rupert Giles tamped down the desperation in his voice. He refused to beg. It was irrational, it was below the dignity of his office, and most importantly it wouldn't help. "As your employer, your friend, and the only person standing between you and an Ethan-guided make over day ..."

Pamela looked up, clearly considering that last. From her expression, it might or might not have been a threat. Likely depending on her mood. Or, of course, Ethan's.

Giles ignored that and pressed on. "You have to find a way to break that curse. I'm at the utter end of my rope.""

"Have you considered asking Ethan?"

"I did. He said - and I quote -'ask Angel'."

"So?" One hand reached automatically to her double-sized rolodex, the other for her phone. "Ask Angel."

"I did." Giles reached out, stopping the spinning wheel. "He offered to come over and put the man out of my misery."

"Oh." Pamela bit at her lower lip. "That would be... not such a good idea."

"Obviously." Giles reached for his glasses. remembered with his hand halfway up that he was wearing contacts, and - after a moment - went for the handkerchief anyway. Some days a man just needed something to rub. "We do NOT feed Watchers to vampires." Mentally he added, 'regardless of how we feel personally about said watcher'."

Pamela's fingers twitched phone-ward. Not quite reaching but... "Perhaps Sp... William could have a word with his sire?"

"He did. The words he chose were 'bloody fantastic job.' "

"Oh." Both hands dropped into her lap.

"But I have to do something." Giles stuffed the useless handkerchief back. "The man is too senior to fire, too dangerous to keep around, and..."

"Dangerous? Really, Mr. Giles..."

"Last week Roger Wyndham-Pryce stepped into the third floor men's. The flush handle came off in his hand and flooded two floors below. We almost lost the whole restricted reading area." Three steps brought Giles to the far wall of Pamela's office. He turned back. "And that was just Monday. Tuesday the somehow got a Range Rover caught under the gate of the parking garage. It took six hours to cut it free, and in the mean time half the afternoon shift had to park on the street. And you *know* what street parking in London is like."

"I'm amazed they found any."

Giles paused. "I had a few of the themerugic research Fellows rig up a pocket universe."

"Wednesday was the incident with the scones." Giles was pacing again.

"Oh yes. That was rather..."

"Right. Add in the pigeon infestation on Thursday, the bit with the fax paper on Friday, and this weekend's two-day email backup...

"Actually," Pamela interrupted, "I don't think that one you can blame on Mr. Wyndham-Pryce. The whole planet got hit with a virus that..."

"Originated here. In his PDA. I have Willow's report." Giles gave up pacing and just slumped into a chair. "The man is a walking Armageddon."

"Very well, Mr. Giles." Pamela patted his shoulder. "I'll see what I can do."

* * *

Four weeks later and the curse was still in evidence. Proof that even the power of Pamela stretched only so far.

Rupert was fuming.

"*FIFTEEN* Slayers mis-routed to Memphis, Tennessee when they were supposed to be dispatching a mummy uprising in Egypt. Not their fault, says the travel agency. I know who's fault the mess was. Roger-walking-disaster- Wyndham-Pryce. I swear the man will say that one bloody positive thing if I have to write a bloody script *order* him to read it.

"Already tried." Pamela smiled, somewhat ruefully. "Not the orders, but... " She fumbled in her bottom desk drawer, after a few seconds producing a brass-and-walnut rectangle. "I had this made up."

"In Memoriam, Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. Watcher." The name was engraved in rich cursive script. Below it were the dates of Wesley's service, above it his birth and death. "He brought a warriors soul to the cause of peace" Giles lowered the plaque gently onto the desk top "Very touching."

"Glad you think so. *HE* wouldn't touch it."

Giles shook his head. "What is that man's problem?"

"Beyond the obvious?"

"No." Giles headed for the coffee maker, helping himself. "That's *my* problem.

"Have you considered explaining?" Pamela asked. "Not the Ethan part, necessarily. Just TELL Mr. Wyndham-Pryce that he has been cursed and..."

"I did."

"So?"

Giles cradled the coffee cup, staring into its black depths. "He refused to pander to the Forces of Evil.

Pamela snorted. "Forces of Ego, more like."

"By the way? Where *is* dear Roger." Rupert winced at his own words. He was spending too much time with Ethan. A suggestion he would have considered impossible. But if he was losing his vocabulary?

"Well? The radio mentioned another collapse on the Central Line. And as the gentleman didn't call for a car this morning?"

Right. Two Range-Rovers, one Bentley, three Mini's and a cargo van. The motor pool supervisor was no longer very fond of -Pryce. "Did the radio announcer mention how long it would take to dig our colleague and the others out?"

"Not as of..."

Pamela's desk phone rang.

After a moment listening she continued. "I suppose they have. That was the front desk. Roger Wyndham-Pryce just signed in." Pamela stood. "I'll set up coffee in the level five training room."

"Thank you."

Today was General Council; the monthly meeting of all the senior Watchers who's duties permitted them to be in London. It had traditionally been held in the Great Hall of Convocation. Back when the Council had *had* a Great Hall. Back when there were enough Watchers in London to fill it. Now, with both real estate and personnel reduced, Giles had taken to holding the gathering in the upper conference room. Rather, he *had* until... well... until the Curse of Roger.

Yes, he snapped at the snarky voice in his head, the capitols were entirely justified.

Given the damage to his own office furniture? (Giles was now working off of rental-agency replacements until the maintenance staff could put the legs back on his desk. ) He was not about to risk thirty feet of antique oak. They could meet in the Slayer-training room. Everything that could break there was *intended* to be broken.

After the meeting he would make one more effort with Wyndham-Pryce. If that didn't work, he would ...talk ... to Ethan. One way or the other, this *had* to end.

* * *

" And lastly? Fifty minutes later Giles had reached the bottom of his sadly thick stack of papers. Unlike the more 'important' meetings, the General Council was for disseminating policy, rather than nit-picking the petty points thereof. "There is the matter of appointing a new Senior Watcher to the Hong Kong posting. I will accept volunteers or suggestions."

"Chang?"? Dr. Hoffman offered quietly. "I would hate to lose him from Oxford, but..."

"I hate to lose him as well." Giles answered. Meaning no. But the offer had been a good one - made in good faith - so he added. "He could do well, but to weaken the Demonic Languages program? We need new translators as of yesterday."

"Nobouto?" Came another suggestion. Cranston, this time. "He's a bit frail but..."

"Good man." Nobouto was. And he'd take it, frail or no. Nobouto had retired with the death of his Slayer, but after the disaster had been one of the first to rally. "Can the Slayer-recovery program afford to lose him?"

Giles knew the answer. Not easily. But then, every function was understaffed. If there had been any easy choices? He wouldn't be asking for 'volunteers'.

"If I might suggest?" Percy Weatherby. Diffident as always, but also determined. "Ambrose Travers."

"From the Bristol unit?" Giles searched his memory. He knew the man mostly by report. But there were excellent reports. Vampire activity was way down, while Slayer injuries had been minor.

Weatherby scratched nervously at his report cover. "I grant he's a bit younger than the usual choice, but his record supports it."

That brought a flurry of response.

"Ambrose Travers?"

"Old Quentin's nephew?"

That was old Chandu. The man was ancient, and had apparently memorized every birthday and anniversary in the organization. He sent cards. By the dozen. Probably on Council postage, but... Chandu was loyal. Giles didn't begrudge him.

"Good solid council family."

"Wasn't he the one that uncovered that werewolf day-care ring?"

"Indeed." Weatherby answered. "One of my inspirations for suggesting him."

Hoffman seemed pleased by the reminder. "Did a fine job on the Loch Ness mermaid matter too."

Giles rubbed his chin. "Top scores, as I recall?"

"Second in his year. " Cranston answered. "Just a few points behind... *ahem*" The cough was accompanied by a glance across the table at Roger Wyndham-Pryce. Who was not the most amiable of co-workers, and who had a history of *not* appreciating the mention of a certain name... "Faith's old Watcher." the man finished.

Twenty years younger then he should be, but... the Council was young these days.

"Very well. Travers it is. Unless..." Giles looked across the room at the one unexpectedly silent member. ""Wyndham-Pryce?"

The man started. "Agreed. Excellent choice, Ambrose Travers. Best young Watcher I've ever worked with. None better. That young man is the epitome of what a Watcher should be."

*KER*BANG!!!*

A huge press of magic shook the room.

"Wha..."

"How?"

"I say..."

It was like a light had gone on. Like vision without tinted glasses. Like the color had been readjusted on a once-faded monitor.

"DAMN!" Giles hadn't meant to say that. At least , not out loud. He stumbled to his feet. "Your pardon. Excuse me..."

Once out of the room he called:

"ETHAN!?? What in the name of Dismas did you..."

"Fall afoul of the unpredictable?" The man appeared with a shrug. "That's chaos for you. The wording was... when he said something positive about his SON."

Rupert swallowed. Hard. "Any son."

Again, Ethan shrugged. "An oversight."

"So?"

"The curse is lifted."

"Even though?" ... Wesley wasn't avenged, his mental voice finished. Although, as he had been doing all but twisting arms to achieve just that? Why was success so unsatisfying? Surely he hadn't been so fond of the man. They had been... never friends... unwilling allies... and colleagues for only the briefest time. Still?

Ethan shook his head. "Lifted is lifted. A son is a son. Even a bastard son."

And that was that.

Angel would have to accept it at that.

If he didn't? Well, Los Angeles was a long way away. Giles would just have to remember not to assign Watcher Wyndham-Pryce to any North American missions. Perhaps? Just to be safe? A posting to ... oh... Mongolia might be found. Temptation out of reach and all that.

That was his first thought. His second was: "I wonder if Travers knew?"

If he had, it might explain the former Council Head's lack of support for Wesley. Travers condemning the son for the sins of the father.

"I wonder...:" Ethan's eyes danced. "I wonder if Roger knows?" His cell phone was out. The central directory number was on screen. Ethan's smile grew wide. "I wonder if MRS. Roger knows."

"Ethan?" Rupert Giles held out his hand for the phone. "No more cursing!"

FINIS

cKKR 2004 (for parts not prior creation of other parties )


End file.
